


Dizzy

by missbeizy



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: F/M, Incest, RPF, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once; twice; release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dizzy

*

It was supposed to have been a joke, the spanking thing. Hell, it _was_ inherently funny, neither of them could argue with that. But then came the part where she liked it and it made his cock hard. They hadn't planned that reality; and that reality wasn't so much with the funny.

It had started innocently enough. One of those rare times when Mom gave her a good hard swat because she'd mouthed off. She'd lain on the living carpet afterwards, secretly enjoying the burn. And he came in to make fun of her, practically dropped everything he was doing to point out that she was thirteen and still getting spanked.

"Aww, poor widdle baby," he'd cooed, patting her denim-covered backside, and she winced and grumbled and pushed at him. "You're such a dork." He kept touching, patting, trying to peek at her lower back.

It was how he let her know the mood he was in. After all, he couldn't just come out and--no. It didn't work that way. He simply stayed, simply kept on touching, in lieu of words or even gestures that might've been clearer. Tingling, she led him to the back of the house and he kept looking over his shoulder and listening for Mom.

In his room she watched as he sat on his bed, back propped against the headboard, sweatpants-covered legs out in front of him. Eyes trickled down her body; his line of sight slip slid like the trickle of sweat beads down the small of her back. She kneed her way across the bed.

"I like it," she whispered, and felt her thigh muscles tense up. His eyebrows lifted. "How it feels."

He didn't know what she expected at first. He curled his small hands around her hips and then her backside, squeezing the fabric against her body. Her pale, colorless lips pressed a thin line. She obviously wanted him to continue the reprimand Mom had started. He felt ridiculous but, as always, was willing to do whatever she wanted, because he knew she'd do whatever _he_ wanted in return. And the nagging, pulse-quickening urge to feel her was never far off. Possession, it was, and a certain safety--nothing with her could ever get him in trouble, or come back to bother him, or change the way they thought of each other. 

Safe. Sure. 

And her skin; and the wispy hair at the back of her neck; and the way she was taking off her jeans and lying her body horizontally over his lap right now, the heat between her thighs burning his. She folded her arms and put her forehead on them. Her white-socked toes did a slow curl and then relaxed. _Well, okay,_ he thought, shivering from the softness on his lap, from the feeling that went through his palm when he smoothed it over the pale yellow of her panties.

He never could've prepared himself for the odd satisfaction that came from bringing his hand down on her again and again, the dull cloth-absorbed swats making her flesh shake. Five minutes into it she started to whimper after every stroke; and blood pooled in his cock slow and heavy, because she started to get hot and he could feel that through the cotton, her hips nudging, searching for friction. 

And then she told him to stop (" _Wait wait_...") and she calmed a little bit. The pause gave him the segue he needed. He slid his fingers down between her thighs, his whole body reacting to the heat coming off her. He would moan aloud if it wouldn't sound stupid; but it would, so he didn't. Her shoulder blades bunched together, creating a wrinkle across her neck, and her knees spread apart. The skin of her inner thigh was damp with sweat and he smoothed it with his fingertips before touching where she ached. She squirmed and made him stop again, sitting up long enough to wriggle the panties from her waist and down past her ankles.

The sight of that pale flesh raised and red, criss-crossed with faint finger-shaped marks, made his cock throb. He played with the slap of his hand, going slow and then fast, up high on the rise of her ass and then lower, just above the crease of her thigh. When he fell into a rhythm she moaned, and then cut the sound off by biting down on her lip. She ground herself against his thigh, but the angle wasn't accommodating enough. He stopped and dipped his hand down again, his middle finger sinking just against her slit, fingertip pressing and finding that swollen bud there. He worked two fingertips into the spot and then squeezed them together. She cried out softly against her tense arms, shaking.

*

Her toothpaste spit wasn't even settled in the sink's drain when he came up behind her and claimed her wrists. It was early morning. The shower water still beaded her shoulders--the combination of it and the comparative cold of the bathroom brought goosebumps and hardened her nipples against the towel that covered her. His fingers found them as if they were all he'd been thinking off, rubbed the pebbled crests and pinned her back against his pajama-clad body. He was still warm from his blankets.

This was one of their most desperate kinds of meetings; the half hour before Mom woke up, when he came out of sleep aroused and sleepy soft, his mind on one thing and one thing only. 

She opened her eyes and stared at their reflection; should feel guilty over what stared back, but couldn't be, just _couldn't_ be, not with his--the towel fell down around her waist and his hands cupped and pressed until her cheeks flushed pink. The desire was almost physically weakening, simply because she could let go around him in ways she could never imagine repeating with others.

He turned her around and kissed her--they never kissed much at all, partly because it was strangely more intimate than anything else they did, partly because neither of them was very good at it. She pushed her mouth into his, blindly and foolishly letting herself cling to how close to him it made her feel. 

His hand was between her legs, foregoing the wait for wetness entirely, because he intended to bring her off without probing. His pointer finger found the flesh that covered her clitoris, pressed that fold down against it and began rubbing slow, tiny circles. The warmth made her knees wobble. She lifted her body and sat gingerly against the lip of the sink, feet inching apart to accommodate the spread of her thighs. He was licking at her tongue, distracted; wrist tilted at an odd angle, fingers circling an endless loop. 

She began to breathe unevenly. Her hips rocked hard and shortly into his hand. She felt his free hand wrap around her backside and pull her in. A moan crested in her throat and she clung to his arm, mesmerized by the steady flex of the muscle in his forearm that passed along the rhythm his fingertips were set to. 

She opened her eyes and found he was staring at her face. The darkness and engrossed adoration she saw there made her body shudder. It was infinitely more dangerous than their reflection in any mirror.

*

He had been doing schoolwork for hours and that, in her humble opinion, was plainly unacceptable. She'd walked past the sitting room in which he had his nose firmly planted in a book several dozen times, making progressively louder noises each time. She'd gone back to her room, braided her hair into loose, shoulder-touching pigtails, and then slipped back.

Subtly was getting her nowhere. 

Finally she admitted defeat and flounced inside the room, falling down on the opposite end of the couch he was sitting on. He did nothing. She bounced, hard, and rearranged her limbs. Nothing. She sighed heavily, flipped her pigtails back over her shoulders. Nothing. She tapped an annoying rhythm on the couch with both hands.

One of his arms lay limp, palm-up, flung out from the rest of his body against the couch cushion. She poked the center of his palm. He didn't budge. She traced feather light touches up his inner wrist and forearm, feigning boredom. She slid off the couch and stood in front of him, stealthily hooking a fingertip over the top of the book and pulling it forward just a bit. So convinced that he would continue to do nothing, she was startled when he suddenly tossed the book aside and grabbed her hand. 

He sat up and wrapped one hand around each pigtail. The brush of his knuckles against her collarbone sent shivers down her legs. He stared at her levelly, tugged, and her body sunk to the carpet. She kneeled between his knees and he didn't relinquish his hold on her hair. His hips inched forward, low on the couch, and she took the hint easily enough. A vague thrill crawled down her sides at the sight of him prone and already half aroused. With eyes downcast and vision peeking through eyelashes she took him from his pants and into her grip. His hands pulled gently, bringing her face against his lap. 

Cheeks flaming, she lapped at his erection with her tongue. Though the motion was unskilled and juvenile, it was enough. She opened her mouth and took him against her cheek, closing her lips and bobbing into and away from his lap with concentrated pacing. He controlled the motion only a little, exerting pressure on the pigtails to keep her close or encourage her to speed up. 

His face screwed up, minutes later, just before he came, pulsing and alive between her lips. His hands let go and the trickle of warmth flooded her tongue. She tried to hide the small cough that rose in her throat and then pulled back too soon, the fluid staining her lip and connecting it to the softened crown of his flagging erection. His thumb touched, smeared the pearl across her parted lips, eyes fixed on the red that painted her nose and cheeks.

She crawled back up onto the couch, unable to stop peeking at his exposed parts. She noted how close she was to his free arm, which he had placed back on the couch just as it had been before. Biting her lip, she inched up. She lifted the cotton of her knee-length skirt and sat on her knees, lowering herself over his hand. She wasn't wearing any panties. The scorch of her bare flesh surprised him. He looked up at her, and then slowly stretched his fingers, pressing them up. A single digit traced the length of her slit and then experimentally slipped inward. Another hint of shock across his face when he found her already damp. She exhaled and the breath took the shape of a sound. That sound said _More, more_. He was well versed in the interpretation of her sighs. He extended the finger and hesitated. She clenched around it and sat down harder against her folded knees, burying it as far as it would go. He was still for a moment; and then wriggled the finger in a slow arch, back and then forward. 

Minutes later found them exactly as she wanted: two fingers inside her and the heel of his palm digging hard into the flesh above her aching clitoris. He was almost entirely still besides the steady swipe of his fingers back and forth. She, on the other hand, was all motion, her body taking what it needed from his touch, veritably bouncing against the springy cushion beneath her body. He watched her; could not bring himself to look away. The slippery tightness around his fingers trembled, almost pulsed, and with one hand gripping the back of the couch and the other holding his wrist, she bucked over and over, wrangling the sensations--or at least trying to.

He brought his thumb up, attempted to press the bud of her clitoris, but it kept slipping away due to the moisture that coated it. He finally found some manner of pinning it and she moaned just barely, her hips stopping and then working up again to a slower start. From the collarbone up she was flushed red and her forehead was just beginning to dampen. It was unbearably hot under her clothes, but she didn't care. She was chasing the spiky and not at all straight path to climax, unsure as always if she or it was in control. The couch squeaked loudly under her. The embarrassment of total abandon was so complete as to be rendered erotic; there was no other way it could play out. 

" _Eli_ ," tumbled from her lips, half-groan half-breath, and she found herself leaning over a little, driving her body downward. Black teased the edges of her vision. The moment crossed over, touched that point where there was no stopping, coiled like wire in her belly. She sobbed softly, face screwing up, and pulled hard at his wrist, clawing at it, forgetting he was even in the room. The feeling was almost painful; the letting go was delicious; liquid that tasted like sunlight against the roof of her mouth. "Ooh, _ooh_!" 

Her fingers and limbs slowly relaxed. She opened her eyes and listened to the jackhammer of her heart against her ribs. Her legs were trembling and tingling. She wanted his fingers to stay, but that would've been silly. He withdrew. His fingers were soft and pruned at the tips from the moisture of her body. He slid them gently across her lips and she shivered and took them into her mouth, tasting the sharpness. That novelty worn, she curled up against the couch. Lethargy took hold. He urged her closer and she curled her head into his lap, accepting the warm drape of his arms. 

The book he'd put aside had fallen off the couch and lay flat on its open pages, debauched and useless.


End file.
